Sense and Sensibility
by Simplicitive
Summary: Sherlock Holmes does not simply die-not so easily, anyway. What will Watson do when Holmes insists on a finished relationship? Holmes X Watson, takes place after A Game of Shadows.
1. Pilot

He walked through the busy streets of London with ease and an elegant prowl, one of which would resemble a noble man's if it were not for the scraggly stubble that adorned the bottom half of his face, the raggedy clothes, and the thick, wild hair that grew from his head. He was excited.

The building was clean and spotless, not a soul in sight nor any workers. This struck him odd, but there was no heinous murder plot nor was there any suspicious activity in the poor city of England anymore. After all, how could there be upon Moriarty's death? No one had the gut or the delicately intricate plan that could replace such large shoes.

His calloused, scarred fingers stroked the plaque gingerly, fingering over the letters and smirking. They couldn't honestly have thought they could get rid of him so easily… then again, they were the dullest in town.

He heard footsteps, brisk and quick, and immediately made for—

"Who are you?"

Watson.

"A friend," he tried to make his voice unrecognizable, but he wasn't on top of his game. His hat and large coat made him look nothing like himself—then again, he had recently spent so much time in costumes that he didn't know what himself looked like anymore.

"Tell me who you are this instant. I'm not here to play games."

"You're also going to miss your ride to Brighton if you keep chatting with me."

"How did you know that? Who are you?" the doctor shouted, his blood pumping faster now as he took another step closer to the mysterious figure in what was the most banged-up coat he had seen since the gypsies.

Sighing, the man turned around. Watson dropped his gun, causing it to go off and shoot one of the nearby chairs.

"Are you trying to kill me?" he shouted, alarmed.

"It wouldn't be the first time," John said under his breath as he raced over to his partner, immediately throwing himself at the increasingly thin man and holding him tightly.

He hadn't been expecting that. Such a display of affection was not only alien to common English behavior, but it was also alien to a married man. What was even more surprising was that those scarred, calloused hands eventually found their way around the doctor's body, slowly but surely giving him an equally constricting, rib-breaking hug.

Watson began to let go but felt Sherlock hold on.

"Holmes?" he whispered softly, hesitantly.

The man abruptly let go and pushed Watson away, giving him that smile that Watson hated—because it meant something was wrong.

"You are to leave, Watson. To Brighton. And I am to never bother you with a case ever again. Do you remember our deal?" he chastised.

Watson rolled his eyes, scoffing at the entire idea, "you could barely live without me. We don't have to agree to such—"

"You are to leave!" Holmes bellowed, the sound of his angry and slightly quivering voice bouncing off of the pristine walls and smooth surfaces with ease. Silence claimed the room for a few moments; Watson felt like his world was crumbling, much like how he felt during the funeral. Breathe. Slow down. The detective let out a shaky breath.

"You said you wanted to raise a family, Watson. You said you wanted to potentially have children, to be with Mary in holy matrimony, to be rid of this dangerous and reckless life that we have founded for so long. You said you wanted to be rid of this for something more solid. So I'm giving that to you," he spoke quickly, much like he always did, and was obviously masking his emotions behind that artificially steady voice.

"That doesn't mean I—"

"Yes, it does."

"I am not throwing you away like this!"

"You already have."

John's mouth slacked open, ajar in disbelief. He promptly punched Holmes in the face, a quite satisfying thud coming from the collision of their two bodies.

"You would not last without me, Holmes. You will wither, you will die, and you will die brutally alone."

"That has always been my fate, Watson."

"No, it hasn't!"

"I have always been alone," he pressed, dismissing the man's advances as he turned to leave. Watson blocked his path swiftly, pushing Holmes back just as many steps as he had attempted to advance.

"You have alwayshad me."

Holmes's eyes, pupils wide with the influence of opium and breath smelling of the usual alcohol, stared at Watson with pity.

"There is no way that your family can be safe if you continue to be with me. You cannot raise children on the side, nor can you place this job simply on the side or else it will kill you. It's that simple, Watson. I'm setting you free to do what you want! Stop being illogical and pleaserealize that."

"This has become my life too, you know."

"No, it has not. It stopped becoming your life ever since you found Mary," Holmes checked his watch. An hour left for John to pack. Mary probably started folding his things in now.

"Is this about Mary? Are you jealous?"

"Jealous that this woman is stealing my partner away from me? Oh, I don't know, shall I rejoice with unmitigated happiness and excitement?" he barked, stuffing his watch back into his pocket.

"And you have the nerve to come into my house and type a damn question mark and give me that stupid oxygen pipe and leave?"

"What did you expect me to do? I can't just announce that I'm alive."

"Why not?"

"Because they are so like you—overjoyed and stubbornly refusing to continue your life without me! I will continue to be of service somehow, some way without you as you rear savage little beasts"

"And? Where will you go?"

"Come now, Watson, you don't honestly give a damn. Let us be men. We are independent creatures that have had some company with one another, yes, but that does not mean we are unable to function without one another's presence! We can survive without this relationship. You have, obviously, been coping quite well."

"Quite well? Have you seen me? I've been doing nothing but writing our last adventure—or what I thought would be our last adventure—"

"Was our last adventure," Holmes interrupted. Watson rolled his eyes.

"—and barely eating or sleeping because of it. Even Mary said she misses you!"

"Oh, I heard that part."

"You heard it?"

"Yes, I was… camouflaging myself in your study."

Watson went mad.

"You have forty-five minutes and counting to leave for your long-delayed honeymoon. I suggest you return home."

The doctor didn't budge. He couldn't believe that this was finally… happening. Holmes was insistent on not being married, not being with Mary, not being away from the job, and most of all not simply abandoning things behind. He had been so determined to convince John to stay all of this time, and yet he was the one pushing John away at their last moment?

"I want you in my life," John admitted, looking down and back up at Holmes again, "but perhaps this is for the better."

Holmes nodded, licking his lips and finally making his leave, "yes, perhaps it is."

**Reviews are great things.**


	2. Peroxide

Sherlock Holmes was not an impractical man.

At times.

He had lost at least ten pounds since John Watson's permanent departure from his life, which was approximately 2.25 kilograms of muscle that had deteriorated from his body due to the lack of sleep, the diet of nicotine and alcohol, and the chronic drug abuse. He sat in his chair all day, surrounded by his growing foliage, plucking at his violin as he stared out the window.

That was in May.

June came by. Summer overtook the air and it was disgusting and uncomfortable. Holmes did not have any cases to spike his interest in, and the first thing Mrs. Hudson was told every time she set foot into the jungle these very words:

"Do not call John."

It had begun since she first suggested the idea in early May, a week after Watson had left for his honeymoon, for she had feared for the worst then. She had watched Holmes slowly crumble, his health obviously deflating at an accelerating speed with each passing day. He was studying, experimenting, researching, playing the violin, fiddling with his drugs and narcotics, and not sleeping. It was driving her mad.

She wrote to John and went off to the post. He arrived in three days' time.

"Surely he hasn't called upon me to come after he insisted on never speaking again?" John inquired. There wasn't much on Mrs. Hudson's letter other than "come quickly" and "Sherlock is unbearable."

She hushed him and pulled him close, whispering softly, "he scolded me every time I even spoke your name! He's losing weight and not eating. You're his friend, so please do something."

Sighing, he took off his coat and made his way up the familiar staircase, gently traced his fingers over the old door knob, and entered the hot room.

John's thin cotton shirt and wife beater clung to his skin, wrapping around his body due to the thick air and binding heat. He felt faint already, and was certain that if his partner—well, ex-partner—was in here, he was either knocked out or changed his diet from alcohol to water. He did not find Sherlock in the room, which was not surprising, but found that the jungle that he had been breeding since Watson's marriage was growing noticeably thicker.

"Holmes?" he called out, brushing the vines and leaves away.

"You are unwelcome!"

He jumped out of the right side of the forest, straddling Watson and topless, half dressed in fencing gear that was obviously in the midst of being taken off… then again, God knows what he was up to.

There was also a spear being pointed at the doctor's neck.

"Get that thing out of my face, Holmes," he hissed.

"It's not in your face it's in my hand," he explained dearly, leaning in.

"Get what's in your hand out of _my face_."

"Fine."

Sherlock stood, twirling the spear absent mindedly between his fingers as he ambled off into the deeper parts of the jungle to his desk.

"I was expecting something, but this is quite out of the ordinary, even for you. What exactly are you…"

"The limits of sanity. Lack of water, lack of sleep, lack of… well, whatever. Withdrawal is something I have had the unfortunate pleasure of understanding already, so that's been checked off of the list. Might I also ask what you are doing?"

"Checking up on you."

"Not on your own, of course. I'm going to guess that Mrs. Hudson has called upon you to assess my physical health because, as she has so wonderfully said to me every hour on the hour of each day, I am going to be the end of myself."

"Come now, Sherlock, you don't guess_._"

"Point taken. Why are you here?"

"The same reason that you have guessed."

"Don't like that word in your mouth."

"You've… lost weight."

"I've lost everything."

Silence. Watson sighed and lit the pipe Sherlock stuck into his mouth. There was no doubt he was bitter about all of this, John knew for sure, but there wasn't much he could do. Why _was_ he here? To make Holmes feel better, or himself?

"How is the wife?"

"Pleasant. Asking about you from time to time. Seems like the women in both of our lives are interested in you."

"Woman. Singular. And I do not plan on getting married with Mrs. Hudson."

"That's not what I meant. How long has it been since you've been outside?"

"A week, maybe more. It's quite foggy, most days seem to mesh together."

"When have you last eaten?"

It was Monday. "Saturday," he answered with a devilish grin.

"And since you've last slept?"

Pause. "Thursday."

"And since you've last drank something?"

"I had Scotch a few moments ago. I'm testing water, I'm not a buffoon."

"If you say so," Watson shrugged his shoulders. He picked up the paper on Holmes's desk.

"You know, for all of its worth, I do miss you."

"I'm ecstatic."

"For all of its worth, I said," John sighed.

"…And I, you."

John looked up.

"For all of its… worth," he murmured, milking his pipe and looking away from John's blue eyes that made him feel nauseous.

Watson had strangled the feeling of attraction he had for Holmes as long as he could remember. His dark, untidy hair, raven and thick lashes that cast shadows over dilated pupils and chestnut irises made John think of very immoral things.

Immoral enough to make what they used to do seem innocent.

"Do I have something on my face?" Sherlock inquired. John shook his head and went back to the newspaper.

"Is there something on your mind?" he asked the obvious, knowing that John usually responded well to that sort of approach. He didn't like it when Holmes started inferring about his life.

"Nothing at all," he said dreamily, paging through the black and white text before setting it down. It was true that the city was quiet.

"Liar."

"Do you really want to know what is on my mind?" John snapped.

"No," Sherlock answered.

"Because you see, a good friend of mine—no, my best friend, the best man at my wedding recently told me to walk out of his life as if I were some sort of prostitute he picked up at a bar that refused to leave. I have spent my life with this man and he simply tells me to forget about everything we ever shared and all of the amazing feats we have done together—"

"Enough," he murmured.

"—just because he says so. Can you believe that? The audacity!"

"Watson," he growled.

"But that's not where it ends. Oh no, Sherlock Holmes does not know how to take care of himself. He wallows in pain, agony, and emotional distraught on his own like all English men do so damn well, but he's a different story. See, what he likes to do is suffer in front of the very eyes of the people that love him! He's a wonderful specimen of arrogance and stubborn pride_!_"

"Stop it!" he yelled.

"Why should I stop?" Watson asked simply, leaning into Sherlock's face over his desk. The detective glared right back at his friend, still in his seat, fingers rubbing his temples.

"You didn't stop for me."

"How could I stop something that never started, Watson?"

"Our friendship did more than start, Holmes. It thrived. It was alive and fulfilling and the most wonderful thing that was in my life."

"Other than Mary."

"Will you stop blaming her?" his voice was rising. Sherlock had enough.

"Blaming her for what exactly? I tried pushing you away for your own good, but you're this child who doesn't understand that danger is no place for a relationship. It is no place for love, for a family, for Mary and for you! You are my most valuable companion, Watson, but for once I am sacrificing something that is so very important to me for you!"

"What would that be?" he snarled.

"Our friendship."

"We can be friends, we can work together!"

"We cannot."

Sherlock Holmes set on an idea was comparable to a brick wall.

"You can't just get rid of me. We will continue to fight about this, continue to argue and be belligerent and angry at each other until you listen."

"Or until you listen. You usually lose, naturally."

Perhaps it was the temperature that hit Watson's head and sent him into delirium, but as soon as Holmes had extinguished his pipe and went to get another glass of whiskey the doctor lunged at him.

The two men wrestled each other to the ground, flipping each other over and kicking and punching in a mess of bodies and fingers and clothes. Holmes eventually successfully pinned Watson down with an unimpressed look, but both of them had sustained damage.

They gathered themselves. Watson went into doctor-mode.

"You know, I wasn't kidding," Watson said as he affectionately doused Holmes's wound with peroxide. A lot of peroxide.

"About what? Ow!" he bit the inside of his cheek.

"About harassing you until you let me back into your damn life."

"Good luck."

"I know you are spectacularly ignorant, but try to—"

"I'm what?" he snapped, glaring at Watson.

"I meant that in a good way."

"You meant spectacularly ignorant in a good way?"

"Easy, Holmes…"


	3. Soak

"Holmes, what is your opinion on love?"

Never before had it ever come up in any of his conversations… or even insinuated or suggested by Watson. It was odd, encountering something in his mind such as this. Alien. It was not like other topics he did not think about, which simply did not interest him, such as astrology, but was an idea that could feel. It was not a noun, but a verb. An action that intercepted his daily life in the most obnoxious of ways but was not given any notice and was simply shoved into the smallest crack in his mind, only to jump out again into his thinking.

Love was a massive nuisance.

"I have no opinion. It comes and goes… rather, it sings and is silenced. It's nothing but a festering sore that never heals."

"So you feel it, then?"

"May I have the pleasure of reminding you that I am human, Watson. As much as I would love to not feel anything of the sort, affection is something that I cannot help but to have."

"So, then, who do you feel affection for?"

"John."

"No, really. Can you name to me five people you truly care for?"

"Care for? Fine. Love? There isn't even five."

"How many, then?"

A pause. "Three people."

"And who would they be?"

"Why are we talking about this?" he turned to face John with confusion and a cocked eye brow. He just shrugged.

"Just curious to how human you can be."

"Fine. Then I should tell you, before you once more pester me with more juvenile questions, that I, like most other humans, fall short. I am attracted to beauty and intellect. Happy?"

"Are you attracted to anyone now?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps?" John inquired, his newspaper bending over forwards in his hands. He was interested now.

"Yes, perhaps. I am unsure, for I do not know if this feeling is truly the painful shackles of infatuation or just a phase. Watson, pass me the whiskey."

"And who might this potential love interest be?" he leaned in.

Holmes, too, leaned in so that their faces were a breadth apart. He smirked.

"Come now, Watson, you don't expect me to honestly tell you so easily?"

His ex-partner glared at him and flipped his newspaper back up. Sherlock sighed and stood, going for the alcohol himself until his hand was stopped by the other's in a tight grasp. His hands were bruised from what was the result of his bare-knuckle boxing escapade the night before, which Watson had gone to spy on, and the doctor now knew every place that had been made fragile by the previous night.

Left rib, ninth down. He pressed on it gently and Sherlock let out a hiss. Holmes had seen a glimpse of his friend at the match, but only that—he didn't bother approaching the man. Watson then laid his hand on Sherlock's right side, squeezing it roughly and making him restrain the need to cry out.

"Is that necessary?"

"I can always tell when you're acting childish, Holmes. Something is obviously bothering you other than my marriage."

"_If you really were so smart, you would have realized that you are bothering me and that most of my problems revolve around you."_ Holmes thought to himself. He did not dare break away from those crystal eyes.

"Whatever do you mean," he inquired gently, "my dear Watson?"

"You're a liar and I know it."

"Figure it out," he slapped Watson's hand away and poured himself a drink.

"As you do everything in your power to stop me?"

"No. I will do nothing to stop you. Do as you wish," he took a long swig of his drink, then placed the cup back down onto the small wooden table. Watson raised a brow.

* * *

><p>It was hopeless.<p>

"Figure it out, John," Sherlock sighed as he reclined in his chair. Watson was at wit's end, trying to figure out whom or what was the receiving end of his affection. It seemed like everything was so abnormal and inconsistent in Holmes's life that nothing could really say whether or not he was in the presence of the person he felt something for.

It's not as if anything changed, either. His diet had no pattern or true rhythm, always lacking something while gaining something else. He would go for days without eating, then a week later he would begin to consume again. Well, of course, with the help of Watson's force. Everything was insane and chaotic unless he was in Sherlock's presence.

"You sly dog."

"Did you get it?" Sherlock inquired doubtfully.

"You don't care for anyone at all. You've been basing your entire schedule for the past two weeks around me."

"What makes you so sure I don't care for anyone at all?"

"Cute."

"I wasn't pretending, John."

"Sure," he rolled his eyes and opened the curtains, Sherlock's body recoiling into a ball in response to the blaring sunlight. Dust exploded into the room and piled on, another layer on top of books that lay half opened and closed, papers and letters and pens on the man's desk. Watson sighed.

"You know… I had hoped you would be, for once, truthful to me. Inside of this enigmatic shawl that you sew so nicely, I know that there is something truly human."

"I was not lying."

"Oh, come off it!" John snapped, turning around and glaring at Holmes. He was sitting upright now, legs folded and in a disheveled state, dark masses of hair curling everywhere. John swallowed hard—was there a chance that Sherlock, after all of this time, was finally aware of these feelings John held in the furthermost corner of his heart?

No, there was simply no way. He never paid any attention to that sort of thing. As brilliant as he was, Sherlock could not have found out—

"I was not lying, John."

"You expect me to believe," John took one, two steps towards him, "that you seriously have affection for me? Me?"

"It's hard for me to believe as well, that I would fall for not only a man, but an idiot."

Watson's eyebrow twitched.

"I would never be with a cretin like you," he lied aloud, Sherlock shrugging his shoulders in response. He picked up his pipe and suckled it.

"I mean, what is it with you? You never say anything, you remain silent and stoic and expressionless to feelings for others and then, _then_ the first thing you tell me after my marriage is that you are _in love with me_?"

"It's most likely a phase, Watson."

"Oh, is it now? How long have you had this 'phase?'"

Silence.

"Sherlock," he pressed.

"A year."

Watson groaned.

"Why do you do this to me?" he asked, sitting beside his ex-partner with his hand massaging his temples. He let out a weary sigh.

"Would you prefer the answer chronologically or alphabetically?" Holmes inquired gingerly.

The smoke gathered in Sherlock's mouth before it slithered out and intoxicated the air. Despite how it was against Watson's nature to remain silent in the presence of such obnoxious behavior, he remained quiet, lost in his thoughts as the white puffs clouded his breathing.

"You're being serious?" he asked hesitantly.

"Very," Sherlock murmured, milking his pipe as he glanced over at Watson. He blew out the smoke into the other's face. Blue eyes remained clear as the smoke spread and disappeared, mixed and blended away. Watson narrowed his eyes.

"I hate you sometimes."

"As do I. Shall we make a club?" he asked, playful, setting his pipe down with a gentle clatter. The two sat motionless, soundless, and practically thoughtless. Holmes admired the dust and how it glistened and danced in the haze of the afternoon sun, streaming through the dirty windows and landed softly on top of everything.

Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. Watson didn't even blink.

"I, too, feel something for you."

"How quaint," Sherlock muttered, "a married man with feelings for his ex-partner."

John hated that. The _ex-_partner. He wanted, he longed to be so much more than a simple memory of a coworker. Memories fade, which is the reason why he made such an effort to visit his friend constantly, aside from how Holmes would, quite literally, deteriorate if his friend was ever absent for too long. John Watson would never allow the man that he loved simply reduce him to nothingness.

"I've had them as long as I can remember, those feelings. They have tortured me for ages. When you leave, I follow. When you push, I pull. I have tried so, _so_ long for you to finally give me something in return, some sort of sign or signal… but never have I caught anything."

"You would have, but I am already so eccentric that you simply missed it," Sherlock whispered.

"Did I?"

"You did," Sherlock smiled knowingly.

"So, all of this time…"

"I have been speaking to a man with deaf ears."

"While I assumed that I was embracing a statue that would never hold me in return," John chuckled, pushing his hair back. How long had he been waiting for this moment?

Silence.

"Must have been quite the awkward embrace."

John laughed airily.

"Is this it, then? Shall we do nothing about these emotions?"

"I don't quite understand what you are assuming, John. You do know that being a homosexual is worse than murder, don't you? Also, you're married. Good job on that one."

"I can't keep holding myself back."

"Yes, you can. You must."

"You're not a patient man, Holmes. You will break."

Holmes shrugged, standing up and pouring himself another cup of poison. "Can't be helped. Besides, you will beat me to it for sure, Watson, for you are not one either. You must let the time pass and the feelings sink in."

"They have sunk into unimaginable depths, Holmes," John whispered, the painful fragility in his voice breakable to the softest of touches. It made Holmes's heart ache.

"You must," he pursed his lips, "you must give me time. You must give yourself time, as well. You never know if these feelings will truly last."

"…Fine. But only for so long. I've already been through quite enough, don't you think?"

"At least you know that I do have those feelings in return."

"Yes, but you are trying to destroy them,"

"I want to at least see if they will last, John. After all, they will destroy us regardless. They might as well be for something."

It was quiet on Baker Street. Holmes sighed and sat back down next to his friend, gazing at the setting sun as ease instilled itself into his body. Although he was unsure why he was feeling such calmness, he appreciated it. The sound of a soft quiet, of John's breathing and of his own, of the faint footsteps of Mrs. Hudson in his home. The common life style that he had secretly missed.

"We must let the longing soak in first, my dear Watson."


	4. Sting

Sherlock Holmes did not have a case.

He had been, once again, living in madness and in pools of garbage (yes, multiple pools all within one room) that Watson tidied up here and there. He had committed picking up and cleaning after Holmes to physical memory—he was now able to differentiate between notes and worthless scraps, between experiments and what was taking up Holmes's time these days.

He was not, however, happy about the latter.

Watson had a wife now. She had a tendency to, like all wives, worry and fuss about how often he came home, how Holmes is the most obnoxiously childish and irresponsible character she had ever met, how much time they spent together, where he ate, Holmes, Holmes, Holmes. She simply butted heads with his ex-partner (which he could understand, for he did the same from time to time) but constantly reveling about it over and over again… it was a bit far.

"It's getting dark, John," Holmes said thoughtfully, mahogany eyes not even glancing at him, "you best return home before Mary yells at you again."

But oh, the nerve of this man.

"Don't you dare talk to me as if I'm the child being scolded," he snarled, pacing over to Holmes in a slow, predatory way. The crazy experiments, the eccentric violin playing, and, now, the constant ignorance. He was completely and utterly deaf to any advances Watson made, any topic that related to their relationship, and, of course, he started ignoring Watson. Now, Holmes already tended to do so, but it was more so now than ever—but he couldn't help feeling under appreciated. He was human.

"Aren't you? I'm the mischievous boy across the street whose house you come over to all of the time," his grin was feral, and normally Watson would melt under that gaze and smile back. Today, however, was different.

"I am sick of this, Holmes. How long do you expect me to wait for you? For us?"

"John, please—"

"No, Holmes! I am tired of it. Of this constant waiting and hoping and longing that has been trapped inside of me for God knows how long, how you now not only give me no emotion at all but now go to the extent of feigning ignorance! I can't… I can't do this anymore. I can't pretend or fake it. I sacrifice my time for you because of how I feel, and I don't care what Mary says to me when I get home because you are worth it."

Holmes hated it when Watson poured his soul out.

Those eyes were always truthful.

"Watson, I can't." he shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Fine," he growled, "fine. Because as difficult as you are, I thought that for once, for once in our relationship as friends, when we were partners, when we had that special bond with one another that you could muster the courage and take down your pride to build something with me that would last longer than one of your test tubes or a glass of your alcohol!" he bellowed, standing up and slipping on his coat.

"Watson, wait—"

"No_!_ I am done with waiting for you. I am finished and completely over this horrendous lifestyle you live, your constant dependency and eccentricities that drive everyone mad… how you take me for granted. God," he laughed bitterly.

"Then leave."

Silence hung heavily over the room as rain began to beat against the windows of the flat. Crumpled scraps of notes, the floor completely covered in sheets and in blankets, the ink blots and pens that littered everything and the drugs in his desk. The familiar compartments that hung open, the curtains that were always lazily hanging half-closed, and the fire that seemed to go out—this room hadn't changed. Holmes and Watson had changed.

"If you believe for a second that I haven't felt something for you that is truer than myself, truer than how I have been lately, then walk out of 211B Baker and never return, Watson," he took one, two steps closer, voice dropping as he continued in a whisper, "because, in all honesty, you are the child," he narrowed his eyes, "and you do not realize the fragility of this situation."

"You do not realize that it is not the situation that is fragile, it is you! It is myself! We are fragile, Holmes—we are human and we are slowly letting ourselves crack for nothing! If you never give it a chance, how are we to determine—"

"Leave, Watson," Holmes said calmly, turning his back him, "if you think that trying is worthless and it is a pitiful excuse and that I am a liar to myself and you about my emotions, than just leave!" he yelled, fists tightening. The hurt was evident in his eyes, as it was in Watson's, but neither said anything about it. The feeling was mutual and was understood, but how could they ever heal such a deep wound?

Watson slowly made his way to the door, the sound of his feet gently touching the wood like thunderclaps. Holmes's heart was pounding.

"I wish I never loved you, Holmes," Watson murmured. The door clicked shut.

Whether or not Holmes had heard his last sentence, Watson did not care. He was done trying to be nice to the man that refused to give him a sliver of a chance. No, Sherlock Holmes was a difficult, boyish man that obviously had no idea what he was spouting. Holmes… did Holmes even think of their relationship?

He doubted it.

A month had passed. Days went by quickly but quietly, and his work began to control his life again. Saving people as a doctor—not as Sherlock Holmes's accomplice. This was what he had wanted to do in the first place, not live such a twisted life. Mary was happier now than before, but the lack of visits to Holmes [not even once a week?] worried her.

"Are you sure you shouldn't give Sherlock a call? It's safe to assume he's at a loss without you around," she smoothed her dress as she sat down across Watson for dinner. He shook his head.

"I'd rather concentrate on us."

"As sweet as that is, he's still your friend, John—"

"I'm not worried."

Bordering now on the two month mark, John knew that the painful ache in his chest was because that wide-eyed bastard had been absent from his life for so long. Was his affection as easy to read as a simple school girl's? Could he not last without his crush's subtle touch and smile? No, he could tough this out. He had to get over Holmes and get over himself.

Letters. One, two, three envelopes left on his desk, two from Mrs. Hudson and one from an unmarked sender. He checked Mrs. Hudson's first.

"You are kidding me," Watson muttered under his breath, sighing as his eyes traced over the cursive. He groaned and laid back into his seat as he opened the next one from the landlady.

Holmes was missing.

He glared at the final envelope and tore it open, already knowing who it was from. The paper inside smelled of tobacco and was a sheet of the scrap paper Holmes used. The text was bold and smudged, and it seemed as if the writer was aggravated and in a hurry. Its contents only further supported the speculation.

_Don't look for me. I'm already gone._

"Stupid man," he grumbled miserably, slipping on his jacket as his steely gaze grabbed the letter and pocketed it before leaving a note to his wife. Hopefully she would understand… God, he prayed she did.

_Holmes is missing, Mary. Mrs. Hudson is frantic, and I've gone over to help them find him. I'll be back soon, I promise_.

"You bastard," he murmured as he closed the door and stepped out into the brisk night air.


	5. Gauze

**Because of the lovely reviews, sex.**

* * *

><p>Spotless. Absolutely spotless.<p>

There wasn't a single shred or a sliver of paper, no shards of glass, no test tubes lying about—Watson could finally see the _floor_, too, but apart from that—no Holmes, either.

"It was the most peculiar thing, when he left. I had heard nothing coming from the room and knocked on the door, because, well, you know Sherlock—if he's quiet he's making some sort of trouble—but he simply said that he was preparing for a case. Didn't mention anything else, but the next morning when I came in… he was gone, and the room was clean. Vanished, like the mess stood up and went with him!"

"You didn't clean it?"

"I am his land lord, not his maid, John."

Since when did Holmes clean? The man wasn't even aware that the earth orbited the sun, let alone how to use a damn rag.

"But nothing on where he went at all?"

"As I know, he left nothing. Perhaps you can find something—you two are good at that, secret messages and giving each other looks…" she sighed, buttoning up the rest of her coat before murmuring that she was leaving now for the post, "…perhaps he sent something. I'd just like to know where he is—he may be a pain, but he's never done this before. He's like a child!"

As the door shut behind her with a gentle _clack_, Watson's ears rung with silence. The overbearing quietness of the room, the empty fireplace and the wood panels and wallpaper flooding with brightness… this room didn't seem natural. It seemed as if it were artificial and sterile, like one of his offices—an uninhabited, desolate area. It lacked life without Holmes, a painful emptiness that overtook all four walls and covered the windows with a thin film of uneasiness that made Watson's skin crawl.

It didn't feel right.

He looked through the desk and the contents in its drawers [which were all, surprisingly, neatly tucked in], leafing through pages and letters and notes that he had already read dozens of times over already. He was looking for something specific; something that struck Holmes's attention, something that would make the aggravating violist and socially inept, constantly stoned detective bring himself up out of his chair and clean and leave. As soon as his touch had grazed the paper, its paper, in the fifth cabinet down, he knew he had found it. The silky page already begun to gray his fingertips, and upon pulling it out he had a gut feeling punch him in his stomach.

**JACK THE RIPPER**

He honestly didn't think…

"You must be joking me," he hissed at the newspaper, paging through its insides and violating every single word and sentence with his hard gaze.

**BRUTALITY IN WHITECHAPEL**

**LEATHER APRON STRIKES AGAIN**

He had noticed the reoccurring murders by the infamous "Jack the Ripper," but he had never once thought that Holmes would honestly find interest in such a case. Watson was quite sure that Holmes probably knew who it was by now—unlike the last case, or any of their other cases, this one dealt a simple criminal that obviously has medical expertise and was not on the same level as Moriarty. This… was too easy.

Something was wrong.

He heard the door swing open and closed downstairs. Mrs. Hudson had returned.

"John! I think I have something you'd like to see!"

He rushed down the staircase [which responded to the force in whines and creaks] and met Mrs. Hudson halfway, for she too had rushed an entire flight. She handed him the folded letter—this time, the paper was far thicker and of heavier material, as if it were from the royal family.

_I do hope you're not worrying too much—since I know you'll worry no matter what. Women tend to do so._

_I don't know how long this will take, but I'll be sure to write._

_If any trouble arises, call upon John._

_I'm at the crown._

—_Sherlock_

"The crown?" Mrs. Hudson echoed Watson's silent reading.

"He's at the palace, Mrs. Hudson… What in God's name is he doing at the palace?" he shouted, prepared to bash his own head into the wall. Nothing made any sense at all—how did Holmes even get into Buckingham House? They had finished it not too long ago, and he just happens to show up one day and is allowed in?

"Perhaps the royal family required his assistance?"

"He would simply say so, then. Although he has his fair share of enemies, there's no reason for him to be so secretive about it…" John bit his lip, wanting to punch himself inwardly for being such a hopeless romantic.

As far as being romantic goes with Sherlock Holmes, that is.

"I'm going after him. He won't like it, but I'm through with doing whatever he likes. Besides, the case will move faster with me there, whether he admits to it or not," Watson grumbled, half of the whine a façade. He wanted to see Holmes—despite how much he wanted to suffocate the life out of such an idea, it was true. And this was, in all honesty, the perfect excuse to leave this dismal life without too much fuss.

But Watson was going to beat Holmes for doing this to him.

"There was also something else in the mail, John… But it was to you specifically, addressed to here." Mrs. Hudson gave him the envelope made of rough, cream-colored paper that had flecks of light and dark brown. It was thick and sealed, and the penmanship on the front was most definitely not of Holmes's.

_To The Pet…_

* * *

><p>He crept into the ornate window and slid in carefully, footsteps soft and muted by the carpeted floor. He could feel the plush material flatten under his foot before rising again as he took his next step, examining all sides of the room before stepping to the center.<p>

It was a bedroom, furnished with gold and gilded pieces. Clothes with shining buttons and thick, richly colored material radiated from the closet, and the bed had a beautiful wood finish covered by cream satin sheets. Royalty. Everything glowed. Monetary values were nothing to them, and they insisted on surrounding themselves with all things fine.

He crept into the closet and sifted through the fabric and shoes, pushing the clothes away as he burrowed into the far back corners. The left revealed nothing—the right, however, had a woolen red scarf, which was thickly covered with dust in the folds, and an innocent wooden box.

Holmes picked it up gingerly and opened the latch. Its insides were plush and held various trinkets that most would find worthless; a four-leaf clover, a beaten necklace made of a variety of metals that was rusting, a broken bracelet, and a few shells. The oddest piece in the already eclectic bunch was the old pipe with the initials SH and EV.

A gun cocked right behind his head.

"Didn't know you were coming over. I would have had a nice welcoming party for you."

"I'm not here to play, Albert."

"Eddy, please. We've known each other for so long, now," a gloved hand slid across Holmes's waist and pulled him in close. He felt the familiar grasp and God, how he wished he could deny those words.

"We have a past. But you've been playing with others lately, I see," Holmes felt the hand leave his body and took slow, cautious steps forward, away from the threat, before turning around. He knew Eddy wouldn't shoot, but, then again, the man was a monster now.

"Well, you stopped coming over. What was I supposed to do? My toys bored me," Albert gave Holmes a wink and put the gun back into its holster. He had a clean white shirt tucked into black slacks and dark red suspenders that were bound tightly against his muscled body.

"You were said to have been in a homosexual brothel, too. Seems like you've tried multiple things."

"Yes, but you know how the law is. Homosexuality is _evil_, right Sherlock?" he grinned mischievously as he closed the space in between their bodies step by step.

"But of course, you know that."

Holmes gave him a small smile, "stop your madness."

"No idea what you are talking about," Albert spoke between gritted teeth.

Holmes pulled the young prince close and pushed him into the wall, restraining Albert's wrists above his head, a breadth away from his face as he murmured, "Jack the Ripper," he smirked, "nice touch."

"I learned from the best," he smiled, half lidded eyes locked onto Holmes's glare. He shifted, exposing his neck as his head cocked to the side, "I've missed this position. You pinning me to the wall for a change, you know?"

"Oh, and how is Mycroft these days? Still irritable and fat?"

Holmes pressed on the man's wrists.

"I don't want to hurt you," he pleaded.

"Let go of me, then. That would be a good start."

Holmes released Albert's wrists and sighed, running his fingers through his wild, messy hair as he felt eyes moving up and down his body. He had… relations with Albert, and that much he could not deny. Enough so that he did not wish to harm him. But their time had ended.

"How's the dog?"

"Dog?" Holmes asked, his voice bordering disgust more than complete confusion. He wasn't certain if Albert had been making a sick joke or was being serious.

"Watson, right?"

Holmes rolled his eyes, waving his hand in the air as if he could dismiss the question away with a flick of his wrist.

"You know, I'm always willing to forgive you. To let you back in again."

"We didn't last for a reason, Albert," he glanced towards the window.

"Sure we didn't. You were afraid of me," he chuckled, fingers travelling down Holmes's front affectionately. His white, gloved hands meant no harm, despite how much blood they had drained. "No, that's wrong. You were afraid of love," he murmured, his hands now moving up, "because you are not afraid of anything, but emotion. My brave little detective…"

Their gazes met and fixated, a still moment of quiet shared as emotions and memories came crashing back into his mind in what felt like a perpetual rush, a fierce stream that he forced to end before he lost himself in it. The nights they had, the words and feelings they shared—how foolish and innocent they were back then. But even then, Holmes had known of love and its harsher aspects.

"I do not wish to hold up a busy man for long," he took a step back away from Albert, who shrugged his shoulders.

"Nothing matters when you are near, Sherlock," he smiled sweetly, but beneath that façade, Holmes felt malevolence and avarice.

"This is a fair warning, Albert. Stop slaughtering the innocent and find something else to occupy your time, or else I will be sure to finish you," the mood quickly changed, but Albert did not drop his smile—or even flinch, for that matter. He simply grinned and raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Are you prepared to kill me?" he asked softly.

"If I must, I will," Sherlock felt the pain in his heart grow with each beat, and, God help him, he cringed at his own words.

"Well, I'll be looking forward to it then."

"Stay out of the brothels."

Albert nodded curtly and sighed, watching Holmes make his way for the window. "Are you sure you don't want to use the front door?"

"No, afraid not," Holmes leaned into the window pane, watching a man in a heather-gray jacket walk briskly up the road, "because I believe that the dog has come searching for his master."

And, without any formalities, Sherlock Holmes descended from one of the many third-floor windows in Buckingham House surreptitiously leaving the grounds.

* * *

><p>"What are you doing here, John?"<p>

Watson whipped around and met a familiar brown gaze, his own eyes blazing and glazed from exhaustion. He left the question unanswered and made his way towards Holmes, masking his anger with poise until he came close enough to punch him. And then he did. Quite hard, too.

Feeling the wind leave his body upon impact, Holmes staggered and caught his balance just in time to receive another blow. He managed to dodge the third by a hair, and, eventually, stopped the incessant pounding.

"What the hell are you doing?" Holmes yelled, the rage that was obviously surging in Watson's veins also apparently causing deafness. Perhaps asking the question louder would help.

"What am_ I_ doing?" Watson echoed, forcing his wrists out of Holmes's grasp as his eyes narrowed. "That's a very good—no, it's a grand question, Holmes. What is a married doctor doing at Buckingham House on a lovely, bitterly cold evening such as this one? Well, Holmes?" he barked, sarcasm laced heavily into his voice, throwing another fist that came far too close for comfort. Was Watson actually trying to harm him?

"Watson, I asked first!" he ducked once, twice and was kicked the third time while he was still down from avoiding the second.

"What an odd dog you are," Sherlock muttered, lying on the ground as Watson stood over him.

"You. All of my life, you have restrained me. You devoted your time in futile attempts to prevent me from marrying, you have no sense of cleanliness or general health and well-being, and then, after hell and backyou suddenly drop everyone and everything around you, simply pack up and leave for Buckingham Palace?" he shouted, his voice echoing in the frigid chill of the evening air.

Holmes was silent, watching the purple-gray, cloudless sky with subtle longing as he sighed, getting back up without the use of his hands and licking his lips.

"And you, my dear Watson, blame me?" his voice had dropped an octave. Watson's steely glare remained on his amber eyes.

"You have had more than once chance to simply eradicate me from your life. I've been trying. I've tried and tried again for us to end, but it is you who believes in this! This dying relationship that you continue to resuscitate, this pain and self-effacing, self-annihilating, torturous charade. Why can't you just let me be?"

"Let you be? Holmes, I don't know if you have recently obtained amnesia, or perhaps a head injury, but you are the one who has done this to me! You've made me…" he trailed off, unable to bring himself to—

"Is it my fault because I exist, now?"

"I don't know, Holmes!"

"Obviously you do, or you wouldn't have chased me here to simply shout 'I don't know' at me!"

"Maybe I did!"

They had become accustomed to being aware of being watched over the years, and very instant the guards at the gate and at the house doors began to eye them suspiciously, they shared a silent moment before, begrudgingly, starting to walk away.

"…Perhaps we should finish this later—"

"Later when, Holmes? Because your time span of 'later' obviously lasts much longer than my own."

"Fine. Just out of the guards' earshot, then. We'll occupy the area for tonight."

They moved hurriedly around the bend of the road into the main street. Holmes knew his way around the area quite well, Watson noted, and they soon managed to find an Inn room—the last room, with one bed—where the two had decided to spend the night.

Holmes slid off his jacket and eyed Watson warily. Silence had claimed both of their voices since their hurried leave from Buckingham House, and it was… abnormal.

Watson sat down at the edge of the bed they were to share later that evening—if they slept at all, that is—and Holmes brought over the chair that had been abandoned in the furthest corner of the room, flipped it around and sat with his legs spread, leaning on the back of it into Watson's face.

"You were saying?"

"About?"

"How you came all of this way to shout 'I don't know' into my face?" Holmes murmured.

Watson's cobalt blue eyes traced along Holmes's face and flit back down to his own hands, "I… I'm sorry. For what I said before, I'm sorry."

"About?"

"Holmes, you know what about."

"I want to hear you say it," his voice was soft, sincere as it could be, really, for it was not anything louder than a grunt as his lips barely parted to speak. His words were rough and his sounds were deep vibrations that made Watson's mind wander back and forth from dirty, unruly fantasy and reality.

"I left Mary and abandoned everything," he groaned at his own words, the stupidity, "for you. Because I was worried and… sick, of myself and of fighting. And yet I came here to fight again, prepared to yell and scream and… scold you, really. And to apologize for saying that I wished I never loved you," blue met amber, and Holmes was wishing, praying, hoping that the next statement wouldn't touch his heart, wouldn't make him feel that pang of guilt and hurt and feel as if he were melting under those cerulean eyes because he always swore he never felt anything because feelings were stupid and wrong, but God did he feel it, "because that's a lie. I wouldn't exist without you."

"...Satisfied?"

Holmes raised his eyebrows and looked away, and Watson swore he was blushing.

"Are you really—"

"No. And besides, I must insist that you accompany myself back home and never return to here again."

"If this is a case, then I assure you that—"

"It's not a case. It is… personal. I'd rather the job alone."

"Well, it is my business too, then, I suppose," John reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the flecked envelope he had received earlier that day, handing it to Holmes, who quickly snatched it.

_To John Watson_

_221B Baker Street_

"Albert," Holmes muttered bitterly.

"Referred to me as 'dog' and 'pet' in the letter," Watson was miffed, but Holmes couldn't help unsuccessfully stifling his laughter upon reading the first line.

_To the Pet,_

_Seems like you have a leash now._

_I know you're there. And I'm watching. Be sure to send your wife my dearest regards, if you return to her. If you do not plan on returning to her, than I suggest you do so, for your emotions and attempts are futile._

_Or have you not learned that already from your dearest Sherlock?_

_Stay, boy._

_Jack_

"Who is _Jack_?"

His eyes narrowed to his silent partner as two and two came together in his mind.

"Did Jack the Ripper send me a letter about you this morning?" Holmes's eyes followed each stroke of ink, each hard line and thin one, the nature of the cursive and the smooth, perfect curve of each letter and the flow of each word. It was no doubt a hand-written letter from Albert—no one else had written it for him, and no one in the royal family knew about this letter.

"Holmes."

"Yes?" he looked up from the paper to meet that familiar, unrelenting glare that was always fixated on him.

"This is no longer just about you."

Holmes retuned the letter to Watson and sighed, pushing back his mess of hair as he leaned back and looked at the ceiling. Although he hated to admit it, "we must wait," he glanced over to Watson, whose face spoke for him: the doctor was waiting for an explanation impatiently.

"He's…" Holmes bit his lower lip and licked it, "he's an old friend. We used to play together, I suppose. When we were young. Dropped connections when I moved, but we frequently wrote over the years until that, too, dropped and I visited him. We… were lovers, I suppose."

"You suppose you were lovers?"

Holmes nodded. Watson didn't know whether to be terrified or angry, but the emotions eventually morphed into jealousy.

"He was too unstable—for me, even. He was self-destructive and it took every fiber in my being to pull myself away from him, but I managed to do so. Now… he's back," he scowled, "because of me."

"So Prince Albert is Jack the Ripper?"

"Yes," Holmes murmured, "without a doubt."

"You seem hurt," Watson folded his hands together.

"It's my fault. I corrupted his mind when we were young—when I knew so much more about the world than he, and when he first asked me to… teach him. His sanity is questionable, now. His intelligence knows no bounds. He's dangerous, and I don't want you hurt."

"Are you telling me to back down?" Watson's voice was rising.

Holmes knew this wouldn't boil over well.

"He was your lover, Holmes. And he now knows of my existence and refers to me like an animal!" The shouting had begun.

"He'll hurt Mary, and he won't stop there!" He had to be the voice of reason just this once—he refused to let another person die for his sake once more—

"To hell with you and your excuses!"

Holmes swallowed hard, standing from the small chair and moving next to Watson. He placed his hands at his sides, and, at the first opportunity, Watson grabbed the closest to him—his left—and gripped it hard.

"I gave up my world," he muttered, anger seething, "just to come here and find you. What more must I prove for you to believe in my love? In me?" His voice shook and his grasp was tight on Holmes's hand.

Holmes wrenched away Watson's touch, but he wasn't able to get far before being pinned down to the tiny, whining bed. Watson's hands were calloused with prominent wrinkles and deep furrows that felt rough and made Holmes shiver as he felt them stroke his body through his thin cotton shirt. The bed creaked with every movement, as if to echo Watson's fingers and to convince Holmes that this was real.

"What are you doing to me?" Holmes breathed.

"What I should have done," Watson growled, "when I first had these feelings."

Watson crushed his lips onto Holmes's, the flesh kneading and pushing as Watson pried his mouth open with his tongue, an unwelcome, slick, strong muscle assaulting him as the bed screamed. Holmes tried to escape, but it proved futile—John's grip was steady and strong, and all he managed to do was create a dull ache in his lips as the doctor abused every crevice and fold of soft, wet tissue in a mess of tongue and teeth.

He hadn't noticed it, but by the time Watson finally let him in control of his own mouth again his chest was open and bare. His buttons had become undone and his skin was prickling from the exposure to the cold air in the room. Was he really—

A groan escaped his beaten, red lips as he felt the first hit of pleasure through his right nipple. John's mouth began to advance the attacks to the rest of his body, nipping and biting and sucking hard on his skin, leaving angry crimson flecks bright and fresh against his pale skin. He squirmed as the mouth continued lower, a gasp becoming lodged in his throat when he felt the cold air rush against his lower half.

His trousers had been carelessly tossed into a growing pool of dismissed clothing, promptly being joined by John's shirt—where Holmes missed his chance to escape because he was busy staring, very blatantly staring, at the man's physique—and his own shirt, too. He felt the familiar trembles in his hands and arms. The fear crawled back into his body again—this horribly intimate feeling of being powerless and savagely attacked by another force. No matter how long he had known a man, they all changed upon obtaining such power.

"John," he gasped, sounds crackling and becoming lost into air as he felt everything being done to him—the warmth and slickness seeping through his underwear as Watson's mouth suckled him through the fabric, as his thighs were spread apart and the entire stretch of sensitive skin was licked. Soon, the thin cotton barrier was removed [joining his other clothes] and he was stark naked.

Shivers cut up his back and he moved limply, being pulled up to the headboard and left defenseless against the piercing beryl eyes that made him twitch as they travelled up and down his body and soaked him in. Holmes knew John was nervous—the shaky, quick puffs of air and the trembling fingers that trailed up his muscles and to his face, the angry look and passion-crazed eyes that were prepared to break him every way possible…

His lower lip trembled as John's thumb probed its way into his mouth, pressing onto his tongue as he felt a large hardening heat press into his ass. He gasped and straightened his back, saliva dribbling down his chin as another finger was added. Sherlock felt a tongue lap up the clear liquid off of his face, hot breaths slipping out of bruised lips as John's fingers forced their way deeper.

He licked his lips when the now slickened appendages were removed from his mouth and had not been expecting them to re-enter him—especially not there_—_

"John!"

He let out a hoarse cry as he tasted iron spurt from his lower lip, biting into it in an attempt to hold onto something to refrain from screaming. They thrusted in and out of his ass, pumping into him and unfolding the deepest parts of his body as they continued to violate him deeper and deeper. But what drove him mad, absolutely insane was how John was watching him suffer and thrash from the pleasure.

"G-God, John…" he groaned, hands gripping the pillow as his cheeks were spread apart and licked, suckled, and wetted. John's tongue forced its way into Holmes, delving further and further into his ass—

He heard John spit into his hand and watched as he lubricated his cock, eyes widening as he tried to sit up and protest before it happened, but nothing he could do could stop it—he was pushed back down and his legs were forced up and over John's broad shoulders, the heat pressed against the pink, twitching hole as Sherlock's arms wrapped around John's neck. He was embarrassed and flushed—he could feel the warmth on his face growing—as he felt those eyes on him again, the watchful gaze of his caretaker carefully examining him as he moaned like a whore.

Sherlock would have screamed if he could have, but no noise came out but faint crackles of sound and a shrill whimper as John pushed himself into his body, chest heaving and eyes crinkling as he felt the pain of ripping open again. Heavy pants for air were interrupted by kisses that bit his lips and sucked the breath out of his mouth and made his lower half go weak. John was driving him mad. And, just when he thought he had become accustomed to it, he felt John move.

"Sherlock, you…" he moaned, "are so tight."

His brows were twisted upward as his mouth was left permanently ajar, the steady rocking of their bodies pulling him into a pit of despair and shame, "if you're going to fuck me, John Watson," he growled, "then you best fuck me like a man."

Watson glared silently at him, and Sherlock shuddered as he heard the man snarl, "you're going to regret that."

"Break me, John."

John pushed back in and did he keep his warning true—he ravaged Holmes, the sound of their skin slapping echoing in the room, the cold no longer biting as fever radiated from their conjoined bodies, throaty, deep moans pouring from his lips as he was pounded and fucked. And he was subdued, reduced to nothing more than a heated, writhing bundle of nerves that twisted and moaned as he rhythmically bucked between John's body and the rough mattress covered by soft, worn sheets. For after each wave of pleasure a stronger one crashed into his form and tore at him, wrenching his mind and forcing his entire being to convulse and scream. The euphoria that unceasingly and invariably followed after these spontaneous bursts of jagged, roughness that beat at his prostate was consistently interrupted by a new one, a new rush of addictive, painful torture as he was desecrated in the most enslaving way.

Sherlock's vision was fading and blurring with each mind blearing movement before focusing again just in time to feel him, to feel that overpowering sensation steal his senses away and leave his body raw and craving more, more of him, more of his touch, of his body—craving to be dominated further.

Nothing was comparable to this.

For when he was alone with his needles and narcotics and violin and experiments and thoughts and cases, when the loudness of his mind would swallow his world up and take everything from him, even then the drugs and the plucking of thick strings of music could not distract him for too long. His body was, at times, with strong enough doses, mollified and calmed and the noise in his skull was fuzzy and the speech of his brain was slurred. That was the only way out of the craze, of the chaos that lay inside of him, as far as he had known.

But this.

Incoherent cries and mewls released in a surge upon each prod against his prostate, the sound of each other's slick flesh and grunts and gasps bouncing off of the walls, echoing loudly. It was dirty and abominable and disgusting for man to be with man, for him to sound like this in front of John—no, not even in front of John, but underneath of him—and he was enticed by how disgraceful it was. Something about this forbidden, dangerous faux pas, this mistake in society made it so damn _good_. It felt amazing and wonderful and fierce and passionate because of how it opposed all word, defied the 'well-being' of the law.

"J-John, I can't," his eyes rolled back as he felt John thrust into him harder—which he did not know was possible at this point—and he cried out, gasping and losing the second half somewhere in the in between, "I c-can't… G-God_!_"

Their lips were open and against one another's, and John felt Holmes's breath in his mouth and he couldn't stand it all much longer. Sherlock was tight and grinding against his hips devilishly, tightening and constricting his cock harder and harder and it was maddening. His breath hitched and he felt it go past quickly—the feeling of Sherlock's ass clenching around his length, the man's sinewy body underneath of his own stiffening and vibrating out his name, the hot liquid spurting onto his toned stomach and chest, John groaning and shuddering as he climaxed inside of Sherlock, the sound of them riding out the orgasm in unison.

It all happened so fast.

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you like it!<strong>


	6. Tape

John Watson awoke in the earlier hours of the day, feeling sluggish but unable to return to his rest due to something blocking his way. As he opened his eyes, the pigmented blue orbs narrowed and fixated onto the hindrance that was currently in this tiny bed with him... Where was he?

He could make out dark, unruly hair and cream smooth skin, and that enough was an answer that sufficed—Sherlock Holmes was in bed with him. And, might he add, the two were naked.

As the events of the previous night crashed in hard waves into his mind, he felt himself subconsciously cuddling towards Holmes. It was cold, and although he could not sleep he dared not leave the comfort of the sheets and blankets. John laid in their bed and traced over each smooth curve and line of Holmes's face, moving about his body and softly stroking the skin with his fingertips as he took the time to reallylook at Holmes: to watch those thick, dark lashes tapered at the ends against his cheeks, those crimson, swollen lips and pink, raw nipples. However, when it came to be too much for him—it being how Holmes was driving him up the wall with his purrs and sleepy, gentle touches and brushes and God that bulge of soft skin against his own lower half—he had to leave.

He slid on his underwear and trousers, the thick woolen material uncomfortable in comparison to the soft flesh he had enveloped himself in the night before, buttoned up his shirt, and put on his coat. Watson wasn't considering leaving the inn—too polite for that—but he did want a breath of fresh air without chilling his partner to the bone. He stole another look at Holmes and could have sworn that there were tear tracks staining those cheeks, but he thought better of himself and dismissed the idea—Sherlock Holmes didn't cry.

The old stairs creaked with annoyance as he went down to the door and stepped out into the rain slicked road, the brick dark and soaked through. It was a clear night in London—or, rather, morning—and the frigid chill attacked his neck and face, leaving the two flushed.

"Such lovely eyes for a mutt."

He whipped around to see a man who, oddly enough, looked a bit like himself—close stature, same build, but his voice was a bit deeper—but John knew at that moment who he was.

"Prince Albert," he breathed.

"Oh, I dislike formalities. Please, call me Eddy—"

"I'd prefer to keep this formal," Watson interjected, "or would you prefer to be called one of your infamous nicknames?"

A wry smile graced Albert's lips, and it would have appeared charming if his words were not like peroxide, "watch your tongue, Dr. Watson. Or otherwise I shall invest in a muzzle."

"Shouldn't the prince be in his quarters?"

Albert placed his hand on what looked like a gun, and John tensed, reaching for his own—and realizing that he hadn't brought it out.

"You see, Dr. Watson, when Sherlock and I were young… it is not he who had developed affection for me romantically, but I who had delved first into that heinous lust. And tonight, you did the same, I can see. You took him against his will," Albert grinned.

Watson remained silent. He knew he had—he knew that Holmes had protested and attempted to escape him, but that was only for the first half of it all—

"Knowing Sherlock, he probably put up a mask to shield how terrified he was," Albert pulled out a white revolver, cocking it and admiring how loudly it sounded versus the gentle night wind and the gloomy silence of the early hours. "After all, you raped him too, didn't you?"

"I did not—"

"You did, Dr. Watson. He's good at that, you know. Enjoying it. But Sherlock thrashed and tried to escape but it was no use, and then he just had to obey and pretend like he enjoyed being violated by his best friend, even though that was what he had been trying to keep from happening for so long—"

"Shut up!" Watson barked. His face was flushed and his eyes stung at the corners. He refused to compare himself with Jack the Ripper, out of all people.

"Fair enough," Albert smiled, raising the gun to John's eye level, "I'll just kill you now, then. Put you out of your misery."

Watson took a quick breath and he felt the routine grasp of fear wring his heart—a feeling that he had come to know intimately after the war, after being with Holmes—but he was sure that this time, he wouldn't be able to slip away. He glanced nervously at the window of their room, where Sherlock was still asleep, and he prayed that he hadn't re-opened any old wounds.

He looked back at Albert and caught that smirk once more before he closed his eyes.

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

John opened his eyes and looked down—there was no pain but, then again, there were no bullet holes either. John gazed at Albert in curiosity, and the prince did not have the same look of confusion—rather, Albert looked annoyed.

"Must you call Scotland Yard in such an obnoxious manner? Some people are trying to sleep," he said sarcastically, pushing his gun back into its holster. It seemed as if he was never able to use the damn thing.

Holmes was standing in the middle of the street, gun smoking in the air, nothing on his body but a robe. Albert turned and gave him a thin-lipped smile, glancing back at Watson before making his way towards the gunman. "Shouldn't you be back in bed? It's chilly out."

"Couldn't bear to miss an old friend. After all, you're not supposed to be in London right now. The perfect alibi," Holmes cocked his gun again. The neighbors were stirring.

"Does he remind you of when we were young, Sherlock? When are you going to stop holding secrets? After all, how much does he know?" Albert's smile twisted, a sickening grin decorating his face that made Holmes's stomach churn.

"Well, I'll be off, then. Have fun, you two!"

He whistled as he walked away, raising his eyebrows to Watson as he left, his footsteps echoing with each step he took on the slickened brick road. The two were left with each other—it was much more awkward now than ever, and Holmes said nothing to his friend as they retreated back upstairs.

They were once again alone with one another, and Watson felt, quite bluntly, like shit. Albert had been right about one thing for sure—he most definitely raped Holmes, whether he liked it or not. The man was too stubborn to really admit to anything or come to terms with his past, and, of course, the damn fool would be the one to encourage such painful behavior.

Watson closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall, head rolling as his mind reeled. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

"It is most definitely not fine."

"Well what is there left to do about the past!" Holmes snapped, eyes flaring as something broke inside of him. Hit a nerve, strung it hard, no doubt, and Watson felt an overwhelming pain grip his heart when he saw those watery brown eyes. He swore this was the first time he had seen Holmes vulnerable since Irene's death, and it was for him, for John. He felt a sick pleasure creep into his body, a relief that made him feel like he did something right despite how horrid the situation was. Holmes was feeling for him, feeling something painfully hard and true and real that Watson had been craving for him to feel for so very long. His arms slid around Holmes's waist again and their faces were close, their breath on each other's lips. Watson could feel the warmth radiating off of him.

"I don't want to hurt you ever again," he murmured. Holmes was burning holes in his sockets.

"You will," Holmes assured, "when we return to Baker Street, you'll leave me for Mary. When we go back home you'll weasel your way back into my life," he traced his fingers over Watson's neck, over his Adam's apple and his collarbones, across the smooth skin that he had learned intimately the night before… but everything seemed so unfamiliar to him. Perhaps it was because he would be leaving it all soon, once again.

"We cannot continue our relationship this way, and you know that."

"I know it, but I don't wish to act upon it. Who will ever know, Holmes?" John whispered softly.

"Mrs. Hudson would damn well know. The neighbors would damn well know—and, well, God forbid Lestrade or anyone, really, walks in on…this."

"They'd probably like watching—"

"Shut up," he growled, attempting to squirm out of John's grasp but inevitably failing. He was gathered again in the man's arms despite his attempts, scowling as he felt everything from the previous engagement rush back in when those kisses started again on his neck.

It was still dark outside, and their window was wide open. Sherlock could see the glass panels across the street glowing and dimming again as their owners returned back to their beds, ignoring the bang they heard earlier and dismissing it as the comfort of ignorance covered them upon entering their warm beds and soft sheets.

Sherlock moaned, shivering and stiffening as he felt John's lips push farther and farther down his skin of his chest and toward his center, his hot, strong tongue flicking and running across Holmes's chilled flesh. John's hands made quick work of the robe he had been loosely wearing, stripping him down and laying him on the bed gently.

"I don't care about being your first or not," John's lips skirted across Sherlock's jawline and neck, suckling gently over the raw patches from last night, "but I swear that I will be the best man you've ever had."

He couldn't speak—his lips were slightly ajar, sounds slipping out of his wet mouth as he grunted and jerked in John's hands, the familiar powerless feeling encroaching on his body as he shivered with pleasure with each gentle touch, each nip and suckle against his skin.

"You're mine now."

* * *

><p>The ride was long back to London, and Holmes had fallen asleep, his head lazily falling onto Watson's shoulder, bobbing up and down as their coach rode along the street. He took the time to admire Holmes's face—the dark transparent circles of skin around his eyes, the smooth planes of skin and soft dark curls of hair that waved out from underneath of his hat and rested against the nape of his neck… the scent of nicotine and the calloused, scarred fingers… He had flashes of last night's passion pass over his eyes—how he had been wrong and how he had finally seen his friend bare and defenseless.<p>

Holmes's body was far from perfect—Watson hadn't been expecting perfect, naturally—but he was beautiful. Scarred flesh was tight around ripples of brawn and veins and God he was a specimen of his own kind. Dark, thick hair that was soft to the touch to the blue blood that pierced through translucent skin, to bulging muscle and worn scar tissue.

John could remember it clearly, really. How his face became flushed when they were tied together between the fabric, the haze of the heat and the cold as their breath mixed and those little cuts dotted along Sherlock's skin and that persistent moaning of his damn name the entire night through, how there was one large scar across his side and a few other palm-sized ones along his chest and abdomen, obvious attempts at taking his life, all being unsuccessful. The healing bruise on Sherlock's left arm…

Oh, and the constant scratching.

Watson wasn't sure if Holmes had figured it out some time ago or it was just a habit that developed the night before, but he had a bit of a fetish for the brief sensation of pain that turned into heat, those little lines of irritation that turned white and then pink that sent shivers up his spine. He didn't know how he was to explain those lines to Mary [especially since he knew that some of those cuts broke skin, too].

But Mary Watson was placed gingerly on the highest shelf of his mind in the farthest corner, the faint clopping of horse's hooves drowning out all of his worries as he laid his own head on Sherlock's, not resting but enjoying the overall content feeling of being with the one he loved.

* * *

><p>It was dark out, now. Again, that is. A whole day was spent in a carriage, and Sherlock Holmes was quite… cranky.<p>

He had awoken in the dark of his spotless room, John's coat left over him and a note on the coffee table saying 'be back soon, JW.' He couldn't trust those words, though—it was already ten, and there was no way in hell or heaven that Mary Mortsan would allow her husband out of the house again. John would come tomorrow, he supposed, and would once more attack him with prongs of reality and fanciful knives and scalpels dipped in truth, masked in some sort of artificial safety… he'd again try to convince him, and they both would, again, fall back into the same loop of beggar and master. The relationship would not continue.

And again, he was thinking. The inner workings of his mind probed at his heart and hurt his chest and _God_ did he need a way out, something, anything at all. John would surely yell at him, but, then again, since when was John ever quiet when he was around?

John. John Watson.

The name hurt and made his stomach twist and his palms sweat and his trousers tight. And it all was just a large lump of pain in his throat that he could not swallow, naturally, for it was love and damn love to hell. He rummaged around his desk drawers, cringing at how neat everything was and how he couldn't find anything and how his heart was beating faster and thumping out of his chest now.

He had begun to feel again, and he hated himself for it.

Sherlock had long ago silenced his heart. He swore to himself to stop this twisted fairy tale, this mute and blind way of trying to find some sort of comfort in the cruel world. He had given up on love, on people. How could one so brilliant even think about the idea? He had lost everything long ago, and thank the queen for that.

Feelings hurt. And that's all they ever did.

His fingers were trembling at this point, but it was no matter—the needle slid into the large vein protruding out of his skin easily, a strangled gasp of air breaking on its way out of his throat. His pupils dilated and the familiar rush of everything quieting graced him with silence, a gift he could rarely enjoy.

The needle was placed on his desk—dropped, really—as he walked back to his sofa and reclined into it completely, his entire body sinking into the plush furniture, wide brown eyes staring at the ceiling blankly. Yes, alone. This was how he was supposed to be—how he swore he would be. But John, oh, John Watson taught him how to feel again and how to love again and he refused to admit it but he knew it was true.

He didn't want this. Look what John turned him into…

* * *

><p>"Holmes!"<p>

The affects of the opium were now gone and they left him empty and bare as he glared a those same ceiling tiles. He heard John's rushed footsteps and dismissed them, but that damn man—

"Holmes!"

"What?" he snapped.

"How much did you use?"

"As if that's the problem," he muttered, standing up and wiping the needle clean before placing it back into its drawer. Watson's eyes narrowed.

"What's wrong with you now?"

"What's wrong with me now?" Holmes echoed, the annoyance heavy in his voice as his eyes shot arrows at Watson with his response.

"That is what I asked, Holmes."

"Yes, well, you see, Watson, we're not together. And we never will be."

"What?"

"Go back home to Mary, Watson. You shouldn't be here—it's midnight!"

"I came this way to see you."

"Yes, well too bad! This—us—can't go on. It's self-destructive and I'm done with matters of the heart, especially with you—"

"What do you mean, done with it? Holmes, we haven't even started anything—"

"Everyone around me dies, Watson_!_"

Was he really worried over John?

"Everyone. Whether it be the most infamous female criminal alive or a friend, everyone around me will perish not from circumstance, but from _me_. From affiliating with me, from being with me, from being _close_. Because I am a wanted man, and this—this heart, these emotions and feelings and bindings kill people John."

"I'm not like others!"

"How are you better than Irene Adler?" he questioned, and God, could he see the pain visibly on Watson's face. Offended, to start with.

"How are you better than my father?"

"Holmes, I—"

"Answer the question, John!" he yelled, grabbing Watson by the collar and pushing him against the wall.

"I'm not!" he shouted back, a brief moment of silent tension between then before Watson pushed in return. But oh, Holmes continued.

"John, you can't… do this. You have a wife now, and you love her, don't you?"

"Holmes—"

"You love her and you have people and things that are important to you. Hell, you're a doctor—you heal people and help them, and you… you have a life to live outside of me. You have so much more, so please, don't… stop doing this all to me…"

Holmes sat down in his armchair, murmuring his words in a broken plea.

Watson felt his mind reeling.

"I love you." He whispered.

"Don't say that," Holmes's voice broke, "please, stop… stop dragging me down this path."

"I love you so, so much, Sherlock." Watson got on his knees before Holmes, taking one limp, calloused hand into his own gloved ones gently, his tired cobalt eyes feeling sympathy for his beloved friend.

"Please," he begged, "you're breaking me, John."

"And I can care for others, but I will always love you the most. Because our souls, Sherlock Holmes, are the same. Whatever souls are made of, yours and mine are the same. And I cannot help loving you, because I was born to do so."

Holmes shielded his face with his other hand, looking away from John and holding back tears with all of his might—holding himself _together_ with all of his might.

"Please, Sherlock, let me love you as I am meant to."

He carefully pulled Holmes's other hand away and silently watched the most beautifully excruciating and harrowing sight of his life: Sherlock Holmes breaking to pieces.

Rivulets of tears trailed past dark eyelashes and down his cheeks in little salty streams that John kissed away, Holmes's lower lip trembling and hands shaking as he broke down, the rush of rejected inclinations and affections fleshing out now for one man, one horribly truthful and tenderly steadfast man that was so stubborn in his love it made Sherlock's heart fragment and splinter. But how could he remain calm? How long had it been since he had let someone else in?

The burdens of his life, the past and present agonies that he suffered through and the loads he had carried for such a long time had been lessened somehow. Just because of one man, one other human being that was, for some reason, so much more trustworthy and special than all of the rest. John Watson tore him to pieces and, without saying a word of his past, made him feel so naked and bare and ashamed and still loved him for no reason at all.

This is what it felt like to be loved.

"I love you," he continued to murmur into Sherlock's ear, cradling him as Watson felt Sherlock's body tremor and his tears soak through his shoulder, "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

Everything continued to flow past him as those floodgates opened and released a half-life's worth of aggression and agony that had been barred and beaten behind the closed doors of his mind. For all of those heart-wrenching moments of silence and solitude and yearning and wanting to let someone in, to let someone relate to his pain in a way that no one else could, a craving to find that other entity that he could bare his all to and become one with… the search had ended, and it was overwhelming. This human, finite life that meant nothing to him but was used as a tool, as a limit or a length to just help others lengthen theirs… it had worth now. It had found its meaning, a new, brighter definition that made him feel free and bold and loved, not in an ignorant childish way with a parent's love, but with a real, matured love between them both that was unconditional and addicting.

But it hurt, too. It hurt because Sherlock Holmes was not an idiot, for he knew that with every side there must be an opposite—with every good there must be a bad, for otherwise that which had no opposition would not exist. For every demon there was an angel, for every emotion there was its polar contrast that made it be. And, with love, there was two sides as well—the wonderful freedom, which pairs with jealousy, anger, hatred, and dependency. Somewhere in the back of Holmes's mind he knew this and he was scared, frightened and terrified of what was to become of them.

But those fears were placed gingerly on the highest shelf of his mind in the farthest corner...

* * *

><p><strong>*Prince Albert Victor was actually suspected as one of the potential leads for Jack The Ripper, but he had an alibi; the royal family had been on a trip the time slot of the killings.<strong>


	7. Cut

It was a monster, it was a tragedy, it was London's hero… it was a mess hidden with careful attention to every detail so much that it appeared sane.

It was Sherlock Holmes.

The brawl house reeked of alcohol, sweat, breath and filth. Watson was one of the few men who had all of his clothes on and had no poison in his system. He was pushed and shoved around in the mass of swaying, stinking bodies that yelled vulgarities at the two fighters in the center clearing. Bottles were thrown, alcohol was spat and poured, piss leaked from almost every being—where was the front?

He managed to get to the rickety edge of the ring, catching sight of one of the men fighting—he was large, beefy and sweating, layers of skin and fat sagging disturbingly. Drool and blood were mixing as they leaked out of the side of his mouth. He got back on one foot, the weight of his body obviously taking a toll on his joints as he stumbled onto the other, still determined to fight… Obviously, the man didn't know when to quit. Watson wondered why he came in the first place.

Sherlock Holmes was, at the moment, shirtless and heaving—ripples of muscle and flesh were bare to the crowd, sweat dripping off of his exposed body as his chest rose and fell….

Oh. That's why.

Holmes's dark hair was matted in places, his eyes wide not in fear, but in awareness. His sinewy body moved quickly and nimbly as the larger man [larger being twice—no, three times his size] attempted a charge, inevitably failing and crashing into the saliva-based mud floor. The man was relentless and continued to swing, and Holmes reacted deftly with each strike and blow, suffering a few but causing much more damage to the other until—

With a large CRACK! one side of the wooden boundary was broken by the force of all of the man's weight crashing into it. There was a moment's silence that swept across the crowd of drunken men that hushed them as shock and disturbance seized their chests…

…which was broken by a roar of cheers.

* * *

><p>"Although I do appreciate your company, John, I do believe you have made more important promises elsewhere," Sherlock wiped his face with the handkerchief Watson gave him and handed it back to the doctor who, of course, did not accept it. He instead pocketed the cloth.<p>

"And where would that be?"

"Your wife. The woman you might have sworn your life to. In case you hadn't remembered."

"Hadn't the slightest."

"Do you have anything in the slightest, in all honesty, John?"

Steel-blue eyes shot him a glare, and Holmes raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "You know, sooner or later this entire ordeal will become suspicious and she will question it, and your loyalty."

"My loyalty to what?"

"To whom."

Watson knitted his brows together. "Do you plan on putting clothes back on, Holmes?"

He was currently strewn across his sofa naked, a towel loosely tied, if that, around his still slightly damp body from his bath. "No. Do you mind?"

"I mind much," he pinched the bridge of his nose, "besides, Mary knows nothing."

"Your wife isn't daft."

"I know that!"

"If you insist." Holmes shook his head and looked away from Watson. He sensed this and used the break in eye contact to look at the man's body—the night before had not been kind to him, despite how much of an expert fighter he was. Bruises spread in greens, blues and murky purples across his skin… but at least the joints he had put back into place after the long evening were fine now.

What he hadn't seen was the cut…

"Holmes, your left arm. Let me see it."

"No."

Watson was taken aback. What was that? "Let me see your arm," he insisted, "or else I will break every single test tube in this damn room."

Holmes gave him a look—a look of doubt that turned into uneasiness—before begrudgingly sitting up and showing his forearm to the doctor. The sight was pathetic—he had obviously attempted to dress the wound and stitch it while still in his drunken stupor the previous night, and the cut, although not infected, was prone to becoming so.

"You idiot," John hissed.

"I was going to fix it when you left."

"When I left? Why not while I'm here? One of us knows how to use a damn needle and it obviously isn't you!" he retorted, standing up and coming back over with scissors, a needle, thread, a bottle of peroxide, bandages and thick swatches of sterile cotton.

He took his scissors and swiftly rid Holmes's arm of the blood-caked thread that had previously adorned his arm with disgust. Watson then grabbed a thick square of the white material, doused it in peroxide, and pressed it down onto the wound—hard. Holmes grunted and hissed.

"Feels worse than your sex," he commented through gritted teeth.

"I will use this entire bottle on your cut if I have to."

"Ow!"

The patch of material, now slightly soiled with the yellow-red tint of his blood, moved up Holmes's arm. The peroxide bubbled and foamed as it touched the blood, the enzymes reacting and fizzing with each touch of the liquid.

Holmes sighed and leaned back into the couch, his towel riding up his legs and torso now and becoming dangerously high…

"Watson, you're missing!"

He had begun to sow the wound together again but stabbed a bit too deep—how could Holmes expect him to stay concentrated as he strip-teased Watson?

The doctor shook his head and resumed his work, shivering when he felt Holmes's lips and stubble brush roughly against his earlobe and his cheek, chapped lips skirting across his skin and continuing to distract him that fucking bastard—

"I'm going to kill you," he muttered as he cut the excess thread.

"Tell me, Watson, is Mary with child yet?"

The question caught him off guard and made him slightly sick in his stomach. Why did Holmes continue to torture him?

"I am unsure."

"Surely you are, Watson, for you are a doctor."

"I am unsure."

"Or is it that you're unsure because you refuse to acknowledge the signs? Perhaps you've missed them while accompanying me?"

"Holmes, please."

"I still do not see the point of you pushing your wife as second—"

"She isn't."

"Then I am."

"You're not!"

"No man can serve two masters, John. Even I know this."

The familiar silence claimed their throats and the room as the two remained in thought.

"I don't want to see you hurt," Holmes whispered.

"You are the only thing hurting me!"

"So leave me, John!" he barked back.

"You'd die without me!"

"So be it!"

There was a crisp SMACK as John's hand collided with Sherlock's face and knocked him to his side onto the couch. Watson climbed over his body and straddled his lover, pulling him up roughly by the unruly mass of dark hair and wolfing him down, kissing him sloppily as he rushed, as he needed to feel Sherlock more with each second that seemed to pass all too fast until he had to leave Sherlock for Mary again.

"You are mine," he growled, "and there is no way I will let you leave this world due to my pathetic ignorance."

Sherlock, now rendered breathless and weak-kneed, was taking in deep breaths of air until John claimed his mouth again, swollen and bruised lips being tortured once more as he moaned and shuddered.

"Then render me unable to live without your touch," he rasped, lips ajar as they hungrily sucked air in, releasing hot puffs right into John's, "break me."

"You bastard."

* * *

><p>Mary Watson had awoken to find a note at her bedside in her husband's handwriting stating simply, "Went to Sherlock, he seems ill. Be back soon."<p>

What had she expected?

She sighed as she got off of her bed and her feet touched the frigid floor, ghosting to the bathroom in her nightgown. She had been washing her face when—

Her stomach wrenched and turned violently inside of her, the painful sting of acid burning the back of her throat as a sudden, unidentifiable force overtook her. She felt the liquid, hot and putrid, escape out of her mouth as she coughed. Mary had been taken aback and confused until she realized what was going on.

She was with child.


	8. Scissors

Her fingers drummed the table as she dined with her husband, anxious and slightly nervous about the entire ordeal—should she wait? Perhaps it was too soon to tell him, too early to break the news that she was unsure of. But no, there had to be something growing inside of her. When was the last time she and John shared a bed? At least a month and a half-

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said quickly. No, not today. There was always room for error.

"Mary," John grabbed her hand across the table, his calloused thumb stroking the soft skin of her fingers and knuckles, "you did not marry a stranger," he reminded her kindly.

She remained silent for a few moments, biting her lip as she set her fork down. John was giving her that same smile he had charmed her with what felt like so long ago.

"I'm with child."

She felt her breath stop in her throat as John's hand left hers and he stood. She feared for the worst—how could she not?-and felt herself on the brink of tears. Was her husband leaving her?

He walked away from his chair and to Mary's side, bent down onto his knees and took her hands into his own. He kissed her fingers and smiled, then kissed her on the lips softly. "Why would you be so terrified to tell me such a wonderful thing?" he whispered. The tears spilled as she curled towards her husband and soaked in the warmth and love, completely unaware of John's inner turmoil that had begun to stir.

* * *

><p>It had been nearly two months since Mary's grand news to Watson. He had seen Holmes substantially less since their last quarrel, and, with a new case afoot, they never met. They hadn't seen each other for six days now, and, despite how he had been keeping busy, Watson was filled with longing and pain.<p>

The newest criminal was of kin with Jack the Ripper—the method, however, was different. Surgical preciseness knew no bounds; the skin of his victims was flayed and the flesh completely removed off of each bone. The entire process took some time, obviously, but the perpetrator probably relished every part of it.

The news gave Mary the chills, so Watson refrained from reading them near her—she was enough to handle normal in her current state, let alone nervous. He continued to see Holmes less and less, but neither spoke anything of it and left their continually loosening relationship go untended.

It was heartbreaking, knowing that they were slipping into something that they swore to each other they'd never do.

"Later," Holmes would say, "we can talk later. Go to Mary for now—she needs you more."

It was raining heavily outside, and Watson had managed to come home more or less dry—umbrellas were no good with the wind, after all—and awkward with Mary's favorite bread from the bakery two blocks away in one arm and his suitcase in the other. The house was silent save for the soft _clack_ of his heel hitting the paneled floor gently with each step.

"Mary?"

The colloquial greeting that welcomed him was missing. John's eyebrows knitted as he took soft steps further and further into his home, eyes scanning over each room for some sort of sign. Was Mary asleep? He supposed it was common for her to be napping, but never at this hour—

He called her name again, but there was still no response. His paced steps slowly became faster as urgency crept through his body. Had someone broken in? Mary wouldn't have gone out, and she had nowhere else to go. "Mary!"

John violently opened each door, flinging every single one of them open as fast as he could. How was his _pregnant_ wife missing? Had she been taken to the hospital while he was away? His hands, now dampened with a cold sweat, slipped on the bathroom doorknob when he first attempted to open it. He succeeded on the second try.

"Oh, God…"

* * *

><p>Thunder boomed as the rainfall echoed inside of Sherlock's room. Everything seemed so much louder when he was alone—or perhaps the drugs were finally taking effect. Mrs. Hudson was out, too—visiting someone or another. Sherlock hadn't bothered listening to her reasoning and simply made a note of when she would return.<p>

He watched as John, one of the few men on the street, ran through nearly every single puddle on his way to the door of 221B Baker Street. He heard the knocking but didn't bother moving from his position by the window, for he knew John always had his key on him. He waited patiently, murmuring counts underneath his breath until finally—

"Holmes! Mary, Mary's—Holmes, you must help me!"

He staggered wearily to his friend and shook him with a tight, wet grip. Watson's clothes stuck to him in every nook and cranny, the thick fabric binding his trembling frame. Holmes was indifferent.

"What is it?" he asked calmly.

"I couldn't—I couldn't find her, and I searched the entire house over and I was so stupid not to think of the bathroom, Holmes, the damned bathroom—she was, she…"

His eyes trailed to the speckles of blood on Sherlock's collar,. John's gaze widened and immediately he grabbed Holmes's wrists and forced them forward, making the man show his palms up. Sherlock's palms were streaked with red.

"What…?"

"Look what you made me do," Sherlock rasped to his lover. His unfaltering gaze seared holes into John's skull. The doctor still couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"What in God's name did you do, Holmes?"

John swore he hadn't heard the man right. Sherlock Holmes, savior of London—killing? "You're a liar."

"The blood is still fresh, Watson."

"This isn't funny, Holmes. The murderer still may be out there, this surgical fellow—"

"I killed her, Watson!"

Watson's head was spinning. His heart was thumping within the cage of his body and he swore his legs had lost all strength. He had an experience similar to this during the war—his first time watching a fellow man fall beside him-but this... Holmes would never. John wouldn't believe it. He couldn't.

"You save people," he whispered, his voice breaking as his words slid out.

"You made me do it, John," Holmes countered, his hands still soaked in crimson as they trembled before Watson. "You ignored me. You pushed me aside for a woman."

"She was with child!"

"You said you would love me."

"You—you killed her."

"Yes."

He was thrown onto the ground. He watched as John's fist collided with his cheekbones once, twice—three times before he was hauled onto the wallpapered surface between the two windows he once looked fondly out of with John to the dreary but bustling city of London. How times had changed.

"You killed her!" he bellowed, his grip tightly around Holmes's collar, nearly choking him. Blood streamed down a deep scratch on the man's forehead, the dark red pumping gently onto his face. "You—you killed my wife!"

Holmes felt the world veer around him as he collapsed onto the ground again, the room spinning in full circles. He groaned and attempted to regain his footing again, but upon obtaining regaining balance on his knees he was promptly kicked in the abdomen, sent crashing onto the floor as Watson towered above him.

"You always leave a mess," his voice was breaking, and it hurt Holmes but he felt no remorse for his previous actions. "You always leave a mess. And I always come when you call, I always do. I come to your aid despite your insistent pushes and shoves—despite how you refuse my help when God knows you need it more than any of my patients and you still manage to ruin everything!"

"Watson, don't do this..." he coughed, his right cheek swelling as he wiped the blood came in rivulets from his temple.

"You killed an innocent woman for what? For love? You've always had me, Holmes, but you refuse to acknowledge that fact—you feel this uncontrollable desire to keep me from everything so that you can be sure to have everything for yourself, for total control—and you've gone as far as to—" he cut himself short and turned over one of the nearby tables that had been covered in papers and test tubes, the breaking of glass and the twists and turns of the parchment against the sudden force painfully loud.

Watson's tight grip latched onto Holmes's throat and pulled him back up. Their faces were centimeters apart, and Holmes's breathing was hitching in his throat as he saw malice in those familiar blue eyes. Had he done such a terrible wrong?

"I despise you," Watson gnarled. "Because you are no longer the man I love," he threw Holmes back down, dropping him as his anger continued to seethe. He stood at a distance from the crumpled man on the floor.

"I hate you."

It was then that Holmes swore he heard something break inside of him; he could take a few cracks and a chip or too, but this—this made his entire being splinter into tiny pieces, made him spiderweb into dazzling shards of soul matter and become a useless pile of broken matter on the cold, hollow floor of his home. The sound of the door closing was distant in his mind.

But he had known he had done the right thing.

"That was quite the act, Mr. Holmes," a voice said from the opposite end of the room. The man walked slowly over to his chair. "And I doubt he'll be returning to you any time soon," he added with a pursed smile.

"Now, if you'd continue with the remainder of the bargain...?"


	9. Needle

While Inspector Lestrade continued his futile search, Watson remained silent.

While Mrs. Hudson continuously sent the Watson home letters, he remained silent.

When the whole world seemed to be knocking at his door, nothing came through.

So he remained silent.

Watson wasn't surprised when he heard how Holmes had gone missing again—like hell if he cared. The man was obviously trying to outrun his past, and at this point Watson had so many confusing memories and paradoxical feelings that it was better to not think of Holmes at all.

He missed him. But he hated him.

Watson also hated the eerie silence that hung in his house when he came home, and he hated every waking moment he spent there. He didn't feel like eating, nor did he have the courage to step into the kitchen where Mary once stood with their baby.

_Raptappa-tap._

He looked up at the door, which never did make a sound before, and glared at it for a bit before taking three cautious steps towards it and turning the knob.

His eyes widened.

"Good day, pup." A familiar man said with an air of superiority.

"I'd like to speak with you," Prince Albert's usual wry smile grew on his lips, "if you don't mind."

* * *

><p>"How long has it been? A week?"<p>

"A week." Watson confirmed gruffly. He wasn't in the mood for conversation.

"Yes, well, business, shall we? I'd like to know where Holmes is."

Watson shot him a glare. It was as if his feathers had been ruffled.

"I don't know."

"You what?"

Watson groaned.

"If you hadn't noticed," he growled, "I'm probably not the one you should be asking."

"You are the last person to have seen him."

"How do you know that?"

Albert sighed, taking off his hat and pinching the bridge of his nose as he muttered "stupid, stupid, stupid."

"Would you like me to give you a damn moment, then?" the doctor countered.

"No, I'll be fine. You see, while you were off lollygagging with your impregnated wife and your useless job, Holmes confided in me for his latest case. The Reaper? Well because of the larger scale of danger for this case, I sent my men to guard him. They're watching his flat, where he walks, et cetera… and you see, they saw you leave."

"And? How could they have not seen Holmes leave?"

"They didn't."

Watson frowned. "Well, that's quite depressing and all, but I—"

"He's your lover, isn't he?" Albert snapped.

"He killed my wife!" Watson yelled back, clutching the arm rest of his chair.

Albert cackled. He shook his head and ran a gloved hand through his hair.

"He never left his home that day, Watson."

"I don't understand."

"You saw your wife that morning," Albert paused, waiting for Watson to nod, "so the only way Sherlock could have killed her is if he left the flat the night before. Which means that he did not, in fact, kill Mary. Besides, how the hell could you even think the supreme justice of London would kill your wife? Don't be so arrogant. He'd never put you above his morals."

Watson was having a hard time processing everything that was being fed to him. Holmes wasn't a murderer? Then…

"Who killed Mary?" he whispered.

"The Reaper," Albert said bitterly, "as we call him. And he, at the moment, most likely has Holmes."

"But—"

"Don't you get it? You're wrong. Besides, if you don't know anything then Holmes must have left something behind in case you bothered to figure it out and not wallow in your own pathetic incompetence." He stood.

"Wait, where are you going?" Watson demanded, standing with him.

"To find him myself, since his lover is obviously more of a damned idiot than I had initially believed."

"I'm going with you!"

"And what good will you be?" Albert barked back.

"Do you think I'll be able to just sit here and let you try finding him on your own?" Watson's fists clenched tightly.

"I've been doing enough sitting around."

The prince loosened. He scowled at Watson.

"Very well, then."

* * *

><p><em>Drip… drip…<em>

"Come now, Sherlock," the man purred, "You don't honestly think anyone will come and save you?"

His arms were pulled over his head and his upper torso was exposed. It was dark and damp wherever he was, and he was soaking in water and sweat. His vision was blurring. He couldn't feel much at this point.

"Don't think you'll die anytime soon. No, I have lots of experimenting to do before I cut your brain out and examine that, too. But teasing you is just as fun," he grinned.

_Crack__._

Holmes let out a strained gasp as he felt the searing feeling of raw flesh whipped clean off of his body. It happened once, twice, three times before the Reaper grinned devilishly at him and placed his whip down on the table, reaching for another toy.

"Ah, you seem quite tired. Perhaps I'll let you rest for now. Today has been very eventful, after all…"

He could feel everything again. The bruises and cuts searing as they met the air, the other scabbing wounds and his blood thumping in his veins through his form. His wrists and ankles were restrained with rope, the dirty floor wet with a semen and blood mixture. Rivulets of the crimson liquid, both fresh and dried, streaked his skin. He cried out in pain as he felt another lashing.

"Is it worth it, Sherlock? This pain, for the sake of your lover who no longer loves you? Who's forsaken you?"

Another lashing. A chuckle.

Holmes felt the man's breath on his neck as he moved closer. "Are you broken, now?"

He admired those hollow brown eyes for a moment, for their beauty and life had gone, leaving nothing more than an empty shell. He watched Sherlock's lips move, as they had been for the past week of torture, and scowled.

"Perhaps you are weaker than I had expected."

He left the room, closing the door behind him with a slam. One could hear the faint whisperings then, only in the complete silence of the dirty, stinking, and damp surroundings, of Sherlock Holmes.

"John… John Watson…"

Again and again.

"John Watson…"

* * *

><p>"I found it!"<p>

There was a letter hidden in the latest volume of their adventures John had typed up. Watson quickly tore it open and laid the contents down on the desk, frantic as Albert came over beside him and glared at the paper, a small piece of parchment, demanding information.

_Dear John,_

_If you find this, please, please_

_believe me_

_even when I say_

_that I am most deeply sorry._

_how I tried to help. It's not_

_long until my time is over._

_even now… Perhaps someone's finally outsmarted_

_me.,_

_I don't know where he's taking me, but please find me._

_The hospice._

_Holmes._

"Can you make something of it?" Albert asked, completely distressed—even more so than before. Their only lead was a slip that had little to nothing written on it.

"There's some sort of code—the way he wrote it, it's…" Watson stammered. Holmes, no matter how lost or rushed he was, must have left something for them to follow.

"Are you sure that it's not just the size of the paper?"

"He does everything for a reason!"

"…It has to be simple." Albert countered. "He may be clever, but he wouldn't have made it difficult."

"Of course it is." Watson licked his lips, scanning over the note again, keeping in mind punctuation, the style of which it was written, the numerous methods that he and Holmes had conversed about.

"…the name of the hospital." Albert smirked.

"What?"

"Bethlem, the hospital."

"It sends my branch supplies from time to time. It's quite simple, too—the first letter of each line, and…"

"Dear God. That bastard."

Watson grabbed the paper and rushed out the door. Albert cocked his gun and followed him, stepping in front of his way.

"Don't you think it's mad to go into a killer's lair without help?"

"Do you honestly believe Scotland Yard would help us?"

"Do you remember who I am?" Albert looked at him dully.

"We haven't got any time!"

"If we make a mistake, a single error, there won't be any more time than what we have now!" Albert retorted. "Let me intervene."

* * *

><p>BANG!<p>

Maniacal laughter bounced off of the cold stone walls as Watson, Albert, and a few other men rushed down a tiny staircase into the basement of the hospital. The old wooden door, its hinges rusted at the edges, flew off upon meeting Watson's foot. It was damp and it smelled putrid, reeking of burnt flesh and chemicals.

"Where is he?" Watson shouted. He reached over to the light-haired man currently restrained and held by several officers, grabbing him by the collar gruffly before shaking him.

"Where is Sherlock Holmes?"

"Ah, you must be John Watson…" he grinned devilishly.

"My dear specimen is the centerpiece."

"Where is he?" Watson rasped again.

"John! Over here!"

He ran to Albert's voice, his gun gripped tightly in his palm. He felt the stench grow and feared for the worst—

"Dear God." He whispered.

Sherlock Holmes's flesh was dappled with bruises of all sizes. The body was covered with stains of blood, the skin now every shade of red—from pink to crimson to burgundy—and small pock marks adorned his forearms where blood had been drawn, right on top of the iodine stains. Massive lashings, done by what Watson presumed was a whip with some sort of modification, left behind not only raw skin but ripped the flesh off.

"Come help me!"

Watson snapped out of his horror and rushed to Albert, releasing the knots and releasing Sherlock's wrists and ankles from the restraints. "Sherlock, Sherlock, c-can you…" he murmured, pushing the dark, matted hair away from his friend's face.

"I'm sorry… I'm so, so sorry…"

* * *

><p>While waiting for Lestrade to finish his search, Watson had been left with the culprit and a handful of officers.<p>

"He won't remember you."

Watson looked over at the Reaper and scowled. "Why?"

The man grinned, licking over his mossy yellow teeth and cracked lips. "You see," he rasped, "I had not beaten him for nothing. A human being can only suffer so much without… breaking. Losing consciousness is not good for the mind. The pain begins to dull after each attack. I had been testing the brain's capabilities, after all. And I needed a good, strong subject…"

"What did you do to him?" Watson growled, standing upright and advancing to him. The officers grew tense.

There was a sickening cackle. "The brain will attempt to reject the source. The first to go, you know, Dr. Watson," he grinned. "After all, memories are recreated from scratch every moment we recall them. As we wear them out, they become more misconstrued, more… wrong. They stray farther from what had truly happened. We become weak. Your friend, Sherlock…" he laughed.

"I do not mind being jailed," he smirked, "for I had obtained the results supporting my hypothesis before you had arrived."


	10. Stitch

Blink. Open your right eye, then your left.

Inhale deeply. Exhale. Repeat.

"Glad to have you back. Are you alright?"

"This might sting a little."

"Sherlock!"

Large brown eyes broke open as he sat upright. He met a sharp, splintering pain in his shoulders and back. A man with brilliant blue eyes and neatly cropped blonde-brown hair gave him a look of worry that extended to sorrow. Quite honestly, he was confused.

A name escaped his lips, but he did not know whose name it was.

"John."

"Sherlock. God, I—I'm so sorry, I didn't… I was so, so stupid…"

"Sherlock?"

"….Yes?" Watson cocked his brow. "Are you alright?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't know… what you're talking about."

"Perhaps you're in a bit of a haze." Watson suggested, standing and going to the window to separate the curtains.

"No, I… Sherlock. Is that my name?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

Watson stopped. He could hear the nurse's voice from the doorway asking him to leave, saying that he should return tomorrow—he knew Lestrade had given orders to prevent John from entering the room, but—

"Y-yes." He stammered, returning to Sherlock's bedside. "Your name."

"And you are John Watson?" the man said robotically, as if he had memorized it as a child, just the sounds. "John Watson."

"Were we close?" he added afterwards.

"Watson! Leave!"

"What did that man do to you?" Watson whispered, clutching Sherlock's hand as the officers picked him up and pulled him out of the room.

"What did he do!" he yelled as he was being pulled out the door.

* * *

><p>"I didn't want you in there for a reason."<p>

"Is that what you call it? No, I'm—I'm taking him back to Baker Street."

"It's not safe there, and you damned well know it."

"A hospital where not a damned soul cares protected by a handful of Scotland Yard is, then?" John retorted.

"Safer than the place he was taken from!"

Watson fell silent. He couldn't express it correctly now—no, he refused to. The guilt that wallowed inside the pit of his soul when he heard words like those, words that told him in a maniacal whisper, "it's your fault."

"How much does he forget?"

"He remembers bits and pieces. He's still damned brilliant, and he can still analyze and recall knowledge."

"I'll be the judge of that," Watson muttered.

"Didn't know that the planets revolved around the sun, though." Lestrade murmured.

"He never did before. And he will most definitely do his best to forget it now that you've told him."

Lestrade nodded, but he didn't understand. Watson still couldn't swallow the information he had heard before—the full blow hadn't hit yet, and he didn't want to understand, to realize the entirety of it all.

"He doesn't remember me, does he?" he whispered.

"…Not entirely. He remembers the name 'John Watson'—I don't know why. But he's going to be staying here for at least a month or so, until this entire ordeal is blown off."

* * *

><p>"Holmes?"<p>

The mess of dark hair turned from the window. He was neater than usual—the nurses were probably being paid extra to give him as much care as possible—but it wasn't until John saw his old friend now that he realized the brutality of the past weeks. Bruises created rainbow tracks across his body—greens, blues, purples—and the iodine solution the doctors used still stained his skin near stitches. Bandages covered his joints and peeked out through the thin shirt he wore where they adorned his abdomen. It was painful to look at, and yet Watson continued to stare, as if he couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight.

"Yes?"

"I—I wanted to… how are you feeling?" He forced a smile. Dear God, as if it wasn't horrible enough already, the damn man smiled back.

"I'm feeling much better." He said softly.

Holmes was like a child, now—a broken child with too much good and innocence to keep the horror down, as if he were unable to stop his optimism. Was Holmes like this? Did he ever have false hope?

"I… I'm sorry."

"For what?" he watched Watson come close and sit beside him. The bed creaked underneath the weight.

Watson remained silent as he slowly began to strip Holmes of the soft fabric shirt, unable to do so because of the trembling of his fingers. He fumbled clumsily with the buttons and, to his surprise, Holmes's hands met his own and clasped them softly before undoing the buttons himself.

It was worse than he imagined.

"I did this to you." Watson started, his voice quivering, "I—I left you alone, I got angry and believed you… I, I thought that you could kill someone so dear to me and I believed it, damn it, I believed it easily and without an idea because I just wanted to blame someone else other than myself—"

"John."

It hurt. To hear that softness speak his name so lovingly as it had before. "Yes?" his voice was shaking.

"I remember that name—your name, John Watson, because during the time this…" he looked at his forearms and wrists, hands and fingers, "…despite all that had occurred, it was the one thing I held onto. Because I knew you would come for me. I knew you would come back."

"And you did."

"I left you and abandoned you—"

"You didn't do anything of the sort."

"But I did and you just don't remember it! You should hate me! You're supposed to hate me!"

"I don't believe in mistakes, John. I'm sure I knew what I was doing. Don't I always?" he smirked, that snarky grin that made Watson's heart beat fast in danger and trust him wholeheartedly—it was all tearing him to pieces.

"I—I, I can't…"

"Even now, when I'm around you," he held onto Watson's hand tightly, "I feel at ease. I may not remember well, but my body does. The comfort you gave me once is still there, deep into my bones. Tell me, John," he began again before Watson could start fighting, "what was our relationship like?"

Silence captured the room. He was certain that there was no "right" answer to this, and that there were most definitely copious wrong ones.

"We were lovers." He said slowly, croaking the words. His eyes shifted nervously down and back up again, where they meted a fervent nod.

"Then, well, I apologize for any problems I've caused, because, no doubt, I have caused a rather large number of them," he was brisk in his words, as he was before when he still had his memory, "and I also have to ask…"

"…How could you ever think, then, that I could hate you?" he grinned.


	11. Thread

The doctors and nurses continued to check in on Sherlock. Most days he sat by the window and looked outside, poured over books that were occasionally brought to him by Mrs. Hudson, who visited from time to time, or wandered about the hospital. He had begun to remember things, and walking helped.

John also helped.

Occasionally John would come by and the two of them would sit and appreciate silence. They would talk little, and John would mention how the hospital had been busy or how quiet everything was now. If Mrs. Hudson did not, John would bring newspapers; one of them would always come by. John spoke more and stayed longer because of the handful of words that always needed to be said—thank you's and I'm sorry's were common. For everything. For the future.

He spent quite some time being hospitalized. Psychology was in its infancy—medicine not too advanced either, but his case of amnesia was not necessarily being written about or studied. They were just trying to take care of him. Soon, his request to return home was granted. It was December 31st.

Mrs. Hudson answered the door at about nine o'clock in the evening to find John Watson. She smiled. It had all been so painful for everyone, and yet they kept pushing.

"You'll find him out in the streets. He's got a case, but he's still restless at night."

Sherlock had never exactly left—he was in a fragile mental state before, which caused the uncharacteristic softness, but his attitude and demeanor were never radically different. He just had a hard time figuring out who he was again.

A part of him liked to believe that he could piece together the puzzle of his mind by searching for certain things, triggering memories or emotions by happening upon them in the empty streets. He was not, however, able to be so easily fooled, even by himself. He was well aware that he could not put himself back into a certain place at a certain time—where he had left himself. He had been breaking for as long as he could remember.

"It's dangerous out here."

"For us both, Holmes." John was breathing heavily, and his footsteps had long given him away from before.

He hated this—this back and forth banter that came like nature, the feeling of elation and warmth that filled him to the brim, the way his heart twisted and turned when he heard John's voice. The feeling of weakness was something that he had come to terms with, but to want such weakness… the wanting of such a thing is something he had yet to master.

"When Albert had confronted you outside of the motel that night, he was wrong." Sherlock's jaw tensed. He hated bringing up the past, even if it was appropriate.

"About what?" John walked over next to him.

"About taking me against my will," he looked up at the streetlamp, at the bugs that flittered around and hummed with their wings, at the buildings that were gray and quiet with sleep.

At anything else but John.

"You do not need to protect me."

"I am doing no such thing."

"If I have harmed you in any way at all—"

"It would kill you. It has been for quite some time, and I can feel it in your eyes and taste it in your words, John."

"Don't tell me I'm not a rapist if that's what I am!"

John's voice, cracking with pain, echoed down the quiet street. Sherlock took John's hands in his own.

"You are no such thing." He squeezed John's fingers.

John couldn't stop thinking of Albert's taunts, the way the night smelled, and how Sherlock looked with the gun in his hand. Terrified, but was it because he would have lost John through death, or through the truth?

"What did Albert do to you?" John whispered.

Sherlock licked his lips and let go of one hand. He took the other tightly and laced his fingers between John's.

"Let us return home."

* * *

><p>It was ten o'clock. Watson was in his chair, and Holmes sat on the desk. Newspaper clippings were strewn across the room, which was back in its state of equilibrium—perfect chaos.<p>

John could never admit how comforted he felt from seeing something so disorderly.

"I am, by a handful of years, Albert's senior. He took a liking to me while we were young, and I taught him too much of the world. He took more of it in than I could have possibly foreseen. I bred a monster and I paid the cost."

"I was the one at fault."

"He's most likely dead now, or something of the sort… the royal family is not too keen on murderers, and their blood is all over their own hands…"

John could barely listen. He left the story here and there, only hearing bits and pieces. He could make out little between his own guilt.

"You and Albert are not the same. You bear your similarities, but are not of the same nature."

"Watson?"

"Yes?"

"Do you believe the things I say?"

"Yes, I…" He took a drink. He was not sure how long he had been listening to Sherlock. An hour, perhaps more.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, soft, but bright-eyed and alert.

"To us." He raised his glass.

Sherlock was not a fan of these formalities or little rituals of society—he didn't believe in them, but, for a moment, perhaps it would not be of bad form to. He raised his own scotch and downed the rest of the liquid. John did the same.

He felt the air hang over their heads—heavily, as if they were trapped inside of a pair of lungs that contracted too tightly, holding in the little air it had before bursting completely. Everything was tense. He set his glass down.

"Kiss me."

Obedience. Something that was uncommon in Sherlock Holmes.

Their lips were soft, and he could feel Sherlock's tongue gently mix with his own. John stood to meet him, pressing hard between his open legs. They rested their foreheads together.

"Stay with me." Sherlock whispered. John had trouble distinguishing whether or not it was a command or a plea. He decided he didn't give a damn.

"Always."

"A new case awaits us in the morning." Excitement hid behind the calmness in his voice.

"Let us concentrate on the now." John smiled and gripped Sherlock's hip firmly, murmuring softly into his ear.

"I'd much rather concentrate on you."

* * *

><p><strong>UPDATE: Reviewed and revised all of the older chapters; we're back in business, folks.<strong>


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